Touches that Sting
by Annie loves it
Summary: Yuki is fallen, broken, soulless...and Tatsuha just wants to help. warnings: ooc, lime, incest. One shot


Disclaimer: don't own it.

Touches that sting

Tatsuha's POV

His touches are burning my skin; his kisses scar my soul, and his agonizing teasing slices at my sanity. He's poison, he's sin, and he's everything I despise. Yet he is what I want and love. I love him so much; I would kill for him, just like he would kill me.

It's dangerous, and it's oh so bad. But the feelings and emotions are undeniable. I can't help but love how he over powers me, how he pushes me down and breaks at my mind.

Insults slice at me with bitter power; he's so cruel, so disastrous. He ruins me, drags me down, cuts at my heart, and then torments me with deep long kisses and passions I was taught to be illegal and wrong.

But there was nothing wrong with my being degraded; I know his game, and the only way to save him is to let him win. He's broken, he's lost, and I'm the only one who can bring him back. Its our dark secret, the one that whispers through the shadows and hides under the covers of his bed. His kisses are mine and meant for me alone, no matter how many people he shares them with. I'm his only savoir, his only escape, the only thing that he has to release and take out his confusion and anger on.

He hurts me…with words and hands. And sadly enough I _enjoy it_. I love it. I strive and live for it. I willingly put myself on a silver platter and allow myself to be used in ways intimate and not so intimate.

Whenever the "brat" is gone, whenever no ones looking, I go to him, knowing he needs me. He insults me; he brakes me down till I'm into enough pieces for him to control. He feeds off my tears, my hurt.

And then to put the cherry on top, he'll kiss me softly…slowly yet passionately. He'll run his hands over my body and rid me of my clothing ever so gently. He'll lower me to the bed and take me with utter care and desire.

I'm his lifeline, the connection from his painful reality. He _needs _me to save him. He needs me to let him break me down, he needs me to fall to his knees and beg for mercy. He's a sadist by heart, or lack there of, and I'm a masochist.

In my mind words spin and spin telling me this was so wrong, his hands aren't supposed to be there, his mouth isn't supposed to kiss me, his body isn't supposed to fit so right against mine. I wasn't supposed to fall so low as to be seduced by my own sibling, a married man at that. I wasn't supposed to let him hurt me, throw me around and make me bleed.

But the feel of the crimson tears that drip slowly from where his anger lands enchants me. It makes me even more aroused, makes my pleasure heighten. His too.

He bites at my skin, drawing more blood and gasps from my mouth. He pushes me to the floor of the hallway, causing me to shiver at the cold hardwood. I love it, the coldness. It's just like him, like his remaining soul.

So long ago we started this "abolishment", I was so much younger. It wasn't to long after he came back from New York, not to long after his own soul was permanently broken. I wanted to save him; I wanted him to be my big brother again. But now so many years later I know it's impossible. Not even his singer husband can do anything for him. The only thing that brat can do is put a band-aid over a deep cut; there's no stopping his bleeding.

How do I know this? How is it I know his scars? Because he shouts and thrashes out at the visions that play in his head. When he hits me, when he gets so lost in himself and takes me violently, he goes into his rants.

He's sick. He's mental. He's disgusting. But I'm the only one who knows. I'm the only one who knows his mental torment, his nightmares. I feel them, I share them with him.

He has no plans of leaving our spot in the hallway. He's in one of his distraught moods, his hands shaking as they rush quickly to unbutton my pants. He pushes his lips hard against my bruised ones, biting and licking at them. I gasp into his mouth at the feel of a hand dip into my boxers and grab at me roughly. It's so wrong. I hate it. I hate him touching me, I always have.

I hate it how he brings me such pleasure. I hate how my back arches as I cry out hotly as he slips his slim fingers in me, preparing me for something even more disgusting. I hate how blood drips from the cuts he marks me with, the color and pain of the bruises he leaves on me.

But whenever I deny him, whenever I want to cry and beg him to stop, I see his eyes. His broken, lonely eyes. He has lost so much, and none of it he will ever regain. And all I can do is submit to his will and allow him to hurt me, torture me, and take me.

He throws off the rest of my clothing and sits against the wall. He carelessly pulls me into his lap, lowering me roughly on to his length. I want to cry out, yet the moan that escapes my lips betrays me. I _want_ it to hurt at this point, I want it to be the worst thing in the world, but it feels so good.

My hands lean against the wall as I slide myself up and down on him, enjoying the deep moans he makes. His hands grip my hips, bruising them. His mouth bites at my neck, drawing more blood. I move faster and faster, loving how he meets my thrusts halfway. Its so good, the feeling of him inside. Shocks of pleasure run from my head down to my toes. Things so wrong feel so good, I'm losing complete control as he hits that spot in me over and over again. The pleasure keeps building, along with our gasps and moans. Faster I ram on him, pushing him deeper in me.

We speak no words, only gasps and cries. No needs for words, for I already know what would have been said. Why, and how. What and pleas.

He licks at the trail of blood he made from his bite. I love his marks, yet I know not to scar him. He has to many. Too many wounds, too many drops of blood flow out of him.

It's so wrong. It's so disgusting, and unfair.. Even though as I reach my highest level of pleasure right before he does, I let my tears slip free. But its not from the cuts and bruises I have. Not from the emotional pain I have.

But because it won't help him.

He's so far gone. He's lost. He's not human anymore. His shell walks around, searching for a soul, and I do all I can to help him find it. He's not mine anymore. He's no ones.

His cat like eyes stare emptily into mine, without a soul, without a regret. He sees my tears, but can do nothing because he doesn't have any more emotions, there fore does not know what to do with the ones presented.

With a heartbroken smile, I kiss his lips softly, dieing in the moment.

He is disgusting. He is insane. He is wrong. He is sin. He is lost. Soulless. He's draining me. Taking whatever is left.

Slipping out of the apartment, bruised and still bleeding, I stumble down the stairs and outside.

His touches sting, even after his fingers have long left my skin. He leaves me hopeless. He's a fallen angel. Yet some how, as he snapped at me to get the hell off of his lap and clean the mess up, I don't think he even cares that he's sliced me open and stolen my own soul.

End

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